


Nights Spent in Company

by nivu_vu



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, F/M, Foursome, Humiliation, Incest, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-06-09 09:26:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6900388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nivu_vu/pseuds/nivu_vu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanley wasn't selling himself every night. Only nights that he was really desperate. Nights that he hadn't been able to sell something else. Some nights were good. Other nights were not so good.</p><p>(Specific warnings at the beginning of each chapter)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: angst, mentions of past incest

It had started with Stan walking the streets and being approached by a scared-looking young woman. And now here he was, fucking her into a mattress and making her beg for more.

It'd been so long since a girl had asked him "how much". Even though he didn't have a particular preference for men or women, sleeping with women was definitely less of a pain in the ass. Tonight was particularly nice. She was cute, good in bed, and paid well. That was really the best he could ask for with his job.

She was arching off the bed, into her second orgasm, when she pulled him into a kiss. Not a sloppy, hungry kiss. No, it was the kind of kiss you gave when you wanted to tell someone that you truly, _truly_ loved them. It was in the way she desperately pulled him to her. Like she never wanted to let him go. And it was obvious that this kiss had never been meant for him.

Right on cue, Stan's mind betrayed him, flashing him back to grasping at Ford just like this. His heart turned cold in his chest.

And the night had been going so well, too.

The girl pushed him back and fell onto the sheets, out-of-breath, a total mess. And fuck _fuck_ all Stan could see was Ford.

He delicately disengaged them and headed for the bathroom. All he could hope for was that she didn't see his distant expression.

"What you thinking about?" she asked breathlessly..

Well, shit. "Huh? Oh, just wondering why a pretty thing like you would need to pay for this."

She giggled, high from their coupling. "You should tell my ex that."

Stan gave her a small chuckle. "He doesn't know anything if he's your _ex_." Hands washed, pants back on properly, he came back and sat on the bed next to her.

"He dumped me for some slut. No offense."

Stan shrugged. "None taken."

She rolled onto her side and away from him. "You're pretty comfy. Anyone ever tell you that?"

"Yeah," he nodded absentmindedly, but his mind wasn't the only thing absent. "My ex, actually." His heart felt pretty empty right now, too.

The girl reached behind her and tugged at Stan's arm. "C'mere."

He fitted himself with his chest to her back, snaking an arm under her head and laying the other over her stomach. Their bodies slotted together perfectly, but it felt all wrong. She was too short. Too thin. Hair too long. Features too gentle. But her hand in his was the worst offense. It was always the hands.

Always.

The girl was sniffling. When had she started crying? "I miss him so much."

Stan kissed the back of her head. "Shh... It's going to be okay." The words were practiced, usually falling from his mouth after a day of particularly harsh bullying.

"It was supposed to be us forever. But he- he-" Those were the last words she said before she was overcome by sobs. They were terrible, body-wracking sobs. They resonated through Stan's bones, and on instinct, Stan clutched her close. More mindless words of comfort formed and left his lips, barely audible.

She whispered, even more quietly than him, "Do you ever miss her?"

"Huh?"

"Your ex."

Stan took a deep breath. The word hung on his tongue, which suddenly felt heavy. Everything felt heavy. His body. The air. Time itself was slowing down from weight alone.

And tonight had been going so well, too.

He finally exhaled.

"Yes."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: ehh nothing really

Empty stomach. Empty pockets. Empty streets.

Stan sighed.

It was now day four of this. He was stuck in some backwater college town with a strong “Keep the Streets Clean!” policy. It was the perfect combination of legislation and location that kept him from being able to conduct any of his businesses.

He needed gas money to get out of here, but the few wallets he’d managed to swipe were just about as empty as his. Any attempts at soliciting the college kids closer to their school would immediately be shut down by the cops that prowled the street hungry for anyone to cuff. And Stan wasn’t really up for that kind of cuffing at the moment.

Just to top off his terrible fortune, the alleyway dumpster he was currently rummaging for food was devoid of anything remotely edible, which was saying a lot. Stan had seen a lot of things borderline toxic in his time, and that wasn't even including the attempts at cooking his brother used to make. Those were definitely something. Even their normally stone-faced father visibly had recoiled when walking in on one of Ford's experimental food designs.

Now, Stan craved for one of Ford's horrible concoctions as if they were the gods' own ambrosia.

He let the rusty lid fall close with a loud _clang_ , and sat down beside it. The air still hung heavy with moisture from the past two days of rain. It clung to his hair and clothes and made him just that more miserable. He exhaled a visible breath of air. The cloud quickly dissipated, and it only served to make him want a cigarette.

No, not a cigarette. He just wanted the warmth it would bring. Stan never remembered getting cold so easily. He had always been on the bigger side, especially compared to Ford. Not that any of the guys in his family were particularly scrawny, but Ford definitely came the closest to it. Part of his nerd genes or something.

But now, Stan was wrapping his arms around his own shrinking frame. His shrinking frame that was much more susceptible to the cold. He really had believed that he couldn’t lose anything else, but here he was, losing all his weight from constantly living on the edge of starvation. There had never been a time he was so thin, except for when he had been a little kid. He was probably even smaller than Ford now.

Stan looked down at the small puddle next to him that was keeping him company. His brother’s face stared back at him, utterly disappointed.

“You and me both, Sixer,” he muttered to the ground.

It was always nights like these where Stan missed Ford the most, when he was starving, cold, and without someone to hold. These nights, all Stan could think about were past evenings of gorging on the unhealthiest excuses for food with Ford on the couch in their living room, huddled close – _too close_ \- to each other for warmth. The TV would be playing something neither would remember in the morning but they’d remember each other’s content smiles as their fingers wove perfectly together.

Stanley hated this. He hated always clinging to the past and clinging to dreams and clinging to what never would be. What never _could_ be. Sailing off and being with each other where no one could judge them? Together forever with his twin? His stupid fucking perfect smartass twin who loved him back the exact same way?

He was dumb as shit to think it could have been.

But he _still_ couldn’t let it go. Stan was sure that one day this would be the death of him. He’d give up his life to chase the impossible, and that would be that.

And just when Stan thought things couldn’t get any worse, three losers who looked like they had just emerged from a frat party happened upon his alleyway. He could practically smell the purchased sports scholarships off of their faux-leather jackets.

They stalked down the alleyway to him with strides too big for their expensive jeans. There was a mischievous glint to their sunglasses (who the fuck wore sunglasses at night), and they looked drunk off their asses.

Stan knew their type. These were the kinds of kids who’d pick on him and Ford when they were younger. Something he’d learned in all those years of being bullied was that this ilk didn’t know how to play with toys.

They only knew how to break them.

And he really was not in the mood to be these pieces-of-shit’s bitch.

They stood above him, tossing out questions like “What do we have here, boys?” and “What d’you think a bum like him would do for a fifty?”

Stan considered that second question. A lot, actually, but he had a better idea.

He said with the best desperate hobo expression he could muster, “F-fifty?”

The three of them burst into guffaws. This was going to be too easy.

The one to the left of Stan pulled out a wallet from the inside of his jacket. He fumbled with it dumbly for a second before managing to pull out a fifty-dollar bill. The bill was dangled and waved tantalizingly a few inches above Stan’s head, but Stan willed himself to be patient.

He grabbed for it slowly, allowing the inebriated fuck to yank it just out of his reach.

They all joined in another chorus of ugly laughter. Then the one standing directly in front of him asked a question to his pathetic crew, “What should we make him do?”

Stan reached out and tugged at the pant leg of the one who just spoke. “P-please. I’ll do anything.”

The guy smirked. “Anything?”

“Anything! I swear!”

The one to Stan’s left piped up first. “Get on your knees and lick my shoes. Clean.”

The other two laughed raucously to that, as if it was the best idea they’d ever heard.

Stan shifted as if he was about to get onto his knees, but he slipped a hand into his jacket pocket instead and dropped far more smoke bombs than necessary. In the following chaos, he quickly collected their wallets and dashed off, running as if his life depended on it because his life did depend on it. But he couldn’t help shouting a farewell “Suckers!” as he hurried his thieving ass to a different alley.

He hadn’t run this fast since that time a customer had brought him back to the customer’s grandma’s house. To be succinct, that old lady had _not_ been happy her grandson liked Stanley’s tits instead of some girl’s. Stan had not dodged a bullet so literally in a long time before that. However, he definitely had to admire how many guns that woman owned.

He clambered quickly off of a ladder and onto the roof of a tall building. Crawling carefully to the side that faced the street, Stan looked down for the three he had just robbed of who knew how much.

A long minute passed before they stumbled past his roost and disappeared into the night.

A sigh of relief escaped Stan’s lungs, which he immediately being sucked back in.

He was really, _really_ high up. His empty stomach churned uncomfortably – even more uncomfortably than before. Why did he do this to himself? Of all the places to escape to, he just _had_ to choose a ridiculously tall building. Cold sweat ran down his now warm neck. The adrenaline was starting to seep out of his limbs, and he knew immediately that this was going to be an excruciating next few hours.

By the time Stan made it back to sweet, sweet land, it was past sunrise. A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, and not just from getting back onto the ground. He was happy because he now had some rich college boy money. He was happy because this would be the first time he could eat a decent breakfast in ages.

Later that night, under the cover of darkness, he would leave. But first, food and sleep. He couldn't be passing out on the road. It was one of the many lessons he'd learned while having his car also be his bed - driving half-asleep was not a mistake he'd like to repeat.

Stan whistled an upbeat tune from many summers ago as he made his way to a diner he knew would be open. He’d heard this song the first time after a long day of working on the Stan o’ War. He’d snagged some beer for him and Ford, and it was a nice sunset of just talking. Then this song had come on the radio. And then it had kept coming on the radio. Again and again until Ford _hated_ it, which meant Stan would whistle it randomly just to annoy his brother.

Speaking of his brother, the diner happened to be across from a bookstore, and, as Stan sent the waitress off with his order, he could imagine his brother walking out of there, carrying a pile of books higher than his head.

The door to the store opened, and Stanley didn’t have to imagine it anymore. Ford - _his Ford_ \- emerged from the bookstore, holding three or four huge tomes in his nerdy arms.

Stan quickly reached inside his jacket for his glasses. He had to be sure.

No fucking way.

It really was Ford.

And suddenly, Stan didn’t want to leave this backwater college town anymore.


End file.
